


Would the world spin round without us

by ellievolia



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012), Thor (2011)
Genre: Domestic, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-04
Updated: 2012-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-30 14:56:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/332973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellievolia/pseuds/ellievolia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint is sent to lay low in the English countryside, and Phil is sent along. Falling in love is not really something they planned for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Would the world spin round without us

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to sirona for the super quick beta!

Phil Coulson cannot say his life is boring. There is not one day that goes by where he isn’t faced with random international threats and-slash-or one of his assets in some kind of mortal danger, because Phil Coulson’s life is not normal. He doesn’t do 9 to 5 and home to the wife and dog; he does wake up at 3 in the morning on a Sunday to pick up Barton from some bar or hospital, depending on the month; he does the listening to Natasha’s rants about her missions and her needs and fills out the necessary paperwork for her; he does the checking and measuring of Tony Stark’s insanity. 

So when Nick Fury calls him into his office one morning and starts with, “You should go on vacation,” Phil is _wary_. In the twenty years he’s known Fury, ten or so years he’s spent with SHIELD, he’s never been offered vacation time - he doesn’t need it. There is always a catch. 

“Sir,” he answers, standing straight. “I don’t think -”

Fury slides a manila folder across his desk towards him; he picks it up. Inside, he finds various pictures of what looks like a charming cottage, with its own private lake, even. Pretty. Phil raises an eyebrow. 

“I need Barton to lay low for a while. He barked up the wrong tree during his last mission, and we’ve got some angry Hungarians after him as a result. Hole up for a few weeks, it’s all paid for and ready. Your flight leaves this evening, gives you both enough time to pack.”

Phil knows better than to question any order, but this is _definitely_ not a vacation. Barton, as charming as he can be, will be going stir-crazy two days into his confinement and Phil will be the only one there to perform damage control. He squares his shoulders, lifting his chin.

“Am I the one telling Barton?”

“No, I’ll take care of it. Go pack, Agent Coulson.”

Phil nods, turns on his heels, and leaves Fury’s office.

;;

The cottage is surprisingly nice. Quirky, with an odd floor plan that Phil reviewed on the plane as Barton snored lightly next to him, but spacious, light, interesting. It’s warm in the English Cotswolds but it’s not the sweltering heat of a New York summer, and there is a lingering smell of lavender and honey in the air as Phil follows Barton inside the cottage, listening for the bleep of the car alarm being engaged. 

Of course, Barton is unhappy about this turn of events, but he’s been strangely subdued the whole way to England and the drive from London to the cottage. After leaving his bags in the living-room, Barton walks over and opens every curtain and windows, letting the summer breeze in and out of the house, goes upstairs without even visiting the bedrooms to claim one as his own first. Phil is unloading groceries when he hears Barton calling out for him.

“Coulson, come up here!”

Phil checks his ankle holster out of habit before going up the stairs; they open into another sitting-room complete with fireplace and a balcony, on which Clint is standing, looking out. Phil joins him, taking in the lake he’s seen in the pictures, the tall grass, the birds singing to the sun from the forest surrounding them. 

“Pretty cool, huh?”

“Why, Barton, you sound like you’re enjoying your exile.”

Barton shrugs, still looking away from Phil, his hands in his pockets. “Never been to England before. Might as well make the most of it.”

There’s something wistful in his voice, something soft in his eyes. Phil doesn’t know why he has to break the spell, but he finds himself doing it anyway. 

“Ground rules: you are not to leave this perimeter. You have to the other side of the lake, and the entirety of the house. You do not make yourself seen, or known. You have to disappear.”

Barton turns to Phil, his eyes sharp as he narrows them. The spell is definitely broken, and Phil feels like some kind of idiot for having said that, closing the window that allowed him a rare look into Barton’s life.

“I’ve done it before, sir. You don’t have to worry, nobody will even know I’m here.”

Phil nods, and Barton walks back inside the house, averting his eyes.

;;

It’s not that they don’t get along. They work well together, Phil knows this for a fact, has seen enough mission reports where Barton worked with other handlers to know that the rhythm they have, the easy connection that doesn’t need words to maintain is something rare and special, and not something Barton has with many others inside SHIELD. 

But they’re not at work right now, they’re living in each other’s pockets like they’re supposed to be used to it, with virtually nothing to do, and Phil has no idea how long they are going to manage without one or both of them getting an arrow planted in a sensitive part of their bodies. He looks up at the skylight in his bedroom on the first night, unable to sleep, and lets his mind wonder to how exactly this has become his life. Glorified babysitter to a 30-something, ungrateful bastard but at the same time genius marksman, it wasn’t what Phil signed up for when he joined SHIELD, but did he really have room for complaining? For the first time in years, his life isn’t in immediate danger, he doesn’t have to think about paperwork, field reports and interrogations, and he’s not even alone. It’s a series of not-quite-firsts that Phil isn’t sure how to deal with - he is a workaholic and without anything to do he feels like he’s got very little purpose, useless to the cause he’s joined. 

He reminds himself this is _not_ a vacation, and he’s here for a reason, to keep Clint Barton safe and alive. Not that Barton can’t take care of himself, but back-up is a notion that is too abstract for him when it shouldn’t be, and Fury would never have trusted him to hole himself up on his own. They’d have found him halfway dead down some side street in London just under a week, Phil is sure of it. 

Maybe Fury thought he’d be doing him a favor, sending him here with Barton. Right now, Phil feels just as caged as Barton must do, but he reminds himself this is not punishment. This is trust. Barton is more of an asset than he realizes; they can’t afford to lose him, and Fury knows better than most just how easily Phil will take a bullet for Barton. Fury knows which button to push, and isn’t scared of pressing until it hurts.

;;

It takes two days for Barton to start running in circles. The first two days, he sleeps till noon and shuffles in the kitchen to Phil’s eggs and coffee, disappears upstairs for a few hours and comes back down later to do the dishes without being asked. He goes to sleep early. The third day, Phil notices the subtle changes, the tension in Barton’s shoulders, the bags under his eyes, telltale sign of a bad night. Barton takes his bow case into the downstairs living-room and methodically unpacks and repacks it in precise, economic movements. 

They haven’t talked much, kept to themselves and their favorite areas of the house, Barton upstairs, Phil in the kitchen downstairs. He’s discovered a recipe book gathering dust in a cupboard and has been considering going through it, just to pass the time. 

On the fourth day, when Barton comes running downstairs for the third time in so many hours, grabbing his bow and inspecting it all over again like he did every time he came downstairs, Phil sighs, closing the recipe book quietly and walking to the living-room. 

“You should go out. Go shoot a tree or a rabbit or something.”

Barton looks up, his bow in hand, and smirks up at Phil. “Earn my keep, bring dinner? Is there a recipe in that book you found for rabbit?”

Phil smiles. “I’ll check.”

Barton lets go of his bow, leaning back into the couch cushions. He’s wearing jeans and black t-shirt, just this side of tight, making Phil’s eyes linger over his biceps for a second longer than necessary. He looks away when he realizes. 

“I guess I could go exploring.”

Phil nods. “And don’t bring back anything you haven’t gutted and cleaned beforehand.”

Barton grins, looking already better than he did earlier, the skin around his eyes less tense. Phil imagines himself reaching out and smoothing his thumb along the lines on Barton’s forehead, blinking the idea away, frowning to himself. 

“I’ll behave, Coulson. Sir.”

He stands up, and Phil reaches out for real this time, grabbing Barton’s wrist and making him look back with a surprised look. “It’s Phil.”

They’ve been working together for months now, close to a year, and yet this level of familiarity has been a line so distant Phil hadn’t even thought he’d ever cross it, but here he is, feeling Barton’s - Clint’s - pulse under his fingertips, his warm skin, and he’s offering something he would never if they were still in New York. Clint’s smile fades, something a little more serious settling over his features as he nods once, sharp. 

;;

Phil spies the cat on the kitchen windowsill one morning when Clint is off for a run around the lake. It's another warm day, and the whole house smells like the bread Phil put in the oven 10 minutes ago, reminding him of his grandparents' house, memories of a childhood he sometimes forgets.

It's a black and grey tabby, and it keeps on sticking its nose to the window until Phil relents, opening the window and offering it a tiny piece of the chicken he roasted the evening before. The cat sniffs it before licking it off Phil's fingers, allowing him to scratch its ears.

Phil can see the cat has a collar and looks well-fed, so he doesn't worry about it getting attached to him, but the way it purrs when Phil drags his fingers through its fur is still pleasing, soothing. It jumps to the kitchen counter a minute later, and Phil looks at the medal on its collar, still petting absent-mindedly.

"Bob, really? Seems people have just as much imagination here than back home. Hello, Bob."

The car purrs, looking up with startling grey eyes at the mention of his name. He pushes his head against Phil's hand, making him chuckle.

"Alright, alright."

"What are you doing?"

Phil is not in the habit of letting himself be surprised, but when Clint's voice resonates through the kitchen from behind him, Phil jumps, turning around quickly. Clint and his soundless feet.

"You should wear a bell around your neck."

Clint smirks, stepping closer when he spots the cat. "Now, wouldn't that completely defeat the purpose of my skills? Who's that?"

"Bob," Phil answers lamely, scratching the cat's chin. "He was by the window. Must be from somewhere in the neighborhood."

Clint leans next to Phil, two fingers on the cat's tail. He smells of fresh sweat and the woods, and he radiates warmth, making Phil want to scoot closer, turn his head and bury his nose in Clint's neck. It's not his smartest line of thought.

"He's gorgeous."

"Hmm."

"Smells good in here, Phil."

"I made bread."

Clint smiles. They're so close their arms are touching, and Bob is lying across the counter to be in easy reach of both their hands.

"If this lasts for much longer, you'll get me too fat to climb trees."

"Trust me, living on take-away and ready meals will do that too. Besides, it keeps me busy."

Clint bumps his shoulder against Phil's. "I like it. Never really got to have healthy home-made meals cooked for me, you know."

Phil wants to ask about the circus, about Clint's past and his brother, these things Phil knows because he's read a file, but not because Clint likes to share. He takes what he can get, though.

Phil smiles back, stealing a glance at Clint's profile. "I like it, too."

;;

Life is quiet. For someone like Phil, _too_ quiet. He can feel the hours tick by when Clint is not in the cottage but somewhere around the lake spying on deers, and even the mundane things he used to take pleasure in, like groceries shopping, become more a chore than anything else. He likes getting out of the house; the drive to Minchinhampton is all small roads woven around sheep and cottages and an ocean of green grass, and the town itself has this out-of-time English charm that leaves Phil wandering the streets for a while, with no aim than to discover more fascinating architecture. 

It’s strange; he’s not used to the quiet and peaceful lifestyle, and he finds himself itching to do something that doesn’t involve being at Clint’s heels, something like finding a hobby, knitting or drawing or something he’s never ever thought about in the past - and they’re just six days in. Instead, he finds himself reading. He gets himself a member card from the tiny Minchinhampton library and takes out _Jane Eyre_ to read by the village green or on the balcony at the cottage, goes through _The Catcher in the Rye_ in one afternoon, reads through all seven Harry Potter books on a whim. He makes a list of classics he’s always wanted to read and never got the chance to, checks the library computer for a top 100 movies of the 2000’s and how many he’s missed. It’s not like Phil doesn’t know he won’t have time to read and watch all on lists before going back home, but it’s a good way to pass the time, thinking about these things that make up a culture he’s not entirely aware of, too busy living a life most people would call fantasy. 

Sometimes Clint sits next to him as he reads and the two of them just fall into comfortable silence, only troubled by the turn of pages or a foot slipping on the leather couch. Sometimes they’ll have lunch on the tiny balcony, barely big enough for the two of them and a table, and talk about Natasha and Fury and missions going pear-shaped, the kind of discussion they can only have with one another - secrets they share with nobody else in their line of work. 

Some days they won’t even see each other for more than a few minutes; Clint will make himself sandwiches and disappear by the lake, Phil will be spending the day out shopping and some fresh air, and they’ll cross paths at night, nodding at each other, a toothbrush in Clint’s mouth. 

It’s a quiet kind of life, but Phil doesn’t hate it the way he thought he might. 

;;

Phil makes his way upstairs slowly, wincing to himself when floorboards creak under his feet. He's not trying to surprise Clint, but their evening has been so quiet and peaceful up to now that it feels like any and all noises are too loud, too much.

Clint is looking at him when Phil turns into the sitting room, a smile on his lips and a large book over his lap. His feet are tucked underneath his thighs, and he's got one page between his fingertips. There's a fire dancing in the fireplace, casting shadows in unfamiliar places and warming up the room with a earthy glow.

"Mind if I join you?" asks Phil, finding himself whispering over the crackling of the fire, and Clint motions to the couch he's sitting on, patting it lightly. Phil sits next to him, looking at the open book on Clint's lap.

"What are you reading?"

"Nothing. I'm looking at the paintings. It's a catalogue from the London National Gallery."

Phil's eyes focus on the small script underneath the painting. "I've always found 17th Century art quite pretentious. I don't have the time to observe tiny details, and the big picture is never fantastic."

Clint brushes a finger over the photograph of the painting, letting out a slow breath. "I've never been to a museum."

Phil blinks, his eyes roaming over Clint's profile, the side of his face illuminated by the fire, the blue of his iris startling in this light. Phil is reminded of his lists, feeling like they're quite frivolous now, and he wonders what would be on Clint's list if he was to make one.

"I was always traveling, and never to places that had this kind of gallery. I wouldn't have had the time to visit them, anyway. Being in a circus is kind of a tough routine."

Phil hesitates before taking the plunge. "Did you really hate it?"

"Not every day. Not all the time. I have good memories, and I'm grateful, but..."

Barney's memory hangs between the two of them then, heavy and hurtful. Phil leans closer, turning the book to the next page.

"I can be your guide to the New York museums, if you want. The Guggenheim is pretty great. So’s the Met."

Clint turns to look at Phil, his eyes sharp and his smile grateful in a way Phil hadn't expected. He isn't sure it's because of the change in topic or the offer, but he takes it. They're so close now that Phil can feel the heat of Clint's breath on his own face, can smell the coffee on his tongue, and he cannot help himself when his gaze drifts down to Clint's lips for a second.

"That'd be great."

Phil smiles, and forces himself away before he does something really stupid, and Clint seems to blink the moment away as well, scratching his throat and looking down at his book.

"What are you reading?"

"Oh, um. Harry Potter." Phil can feel himself flushing as he lets the words out, and Clint's eyes gleam with amusement in the firelight.

"Wishing you were a wizard?"

"If it could help clean your messes, sure."

They share a smile, another of these little secrets between the two of them, and Phil rolls his eyes when Clint starts chuckling, bumping his elbow in Phil's arm.

"You'd be so bored without us, though."

Phil doesn't doubt that. 

;;

Phil realizes just how much boredom has settled in when he finds Clint shaping arrow heads from pieces of dry wood. They pop up on the kitchen counter, the top of the TV set, the stairs - which would be dangerous for anyone less observant than the two of them. They look different, ranging from standard broadheads and field tips to strangely shaped ones that Phil points out to Clint one morning.

“Bodkin point. It’s old school, for battle, not hunting. Not that efficient nowadays.”

The thing is, Phil can’t help but find them nice, almost pretty. They’re unpolished and unwaxed but they’re precise, each strike of Clint’s knife into the wood made with the purpose of create the shape of the arrow head. Phil has never got to see Clint do it, but he finds wood shavings on the floor regularly, and he starts collecting the randomly sized arrow heads, lining them up on the lacquered white top of his bedroom dresser, from smallest to biggest. 

Phil has to wonder how long it’ll be before Clint goes over the edge of boredom into insanity, which would definitely turn into recklessness for him; he wonders if it’ll happen before they get the call from HQ that it’s safe to go home. He wants to push, press Clint’s buttons to see what makes him jump and what makes him cower, his own boredom making him want to experiment and try to find all of Barton’s weaknesses. 

It’s not the point, though. When Phil feels too much like he’s about to push at Clint’s boundaries, he forces himself away, going for a workout in the forest, a run through the village, a drive, anything to clear his mind and keep him from the morbid idea of watching Clint unleashed on him. Close proximity with absolutely nothing to do and nowhere to go will do that to anyone, allowing too much time in your own head, or trying to get into your companion’s. 

So he spends too long taking in tiny details, from the carved arrow heads to the way Clint stalks in and out of the house in the morning, cat-like, silent and deadly. Phil finds it enthralling, watching muscles bunch and shift under Clint’s shirt sleeves, taking in the way he walks like he’s gliding. 

They need to get out of there.

;;

"See, Agent Coulson, I didn't peg you for a romantic."

Clint is grinning around a mouthful of popcorn, looking way too much like a cat that got the cream, but Phil just smiles good-naturedly. Clint has let him in more than he has anyone since he started working with SHIELD, and Phil guesses it's only fair to open up as well, even if it's about his guilty but enjoyable habit of watching every rom-com he can get his hands on.

Rummaging through the DVD collection of the cottage, he'd stumbled upon The Notebook, and while it is far from being his favorite, it is cheesy and well-acted enough to provide the kind of entertainment he is looking for. So he'd settled with snacks, but only managed ten minutes before Clint jumped into the seat next to his own, grabbing a handful of popcorn.

"I try not to explode in roses and champagne with every step."

Clint snorts, resting his arm along the back of the couch by Phil's shoulders, who almost says something about not being a teenage girl in a bad 90's movie, but instead shuts his mouth and leans deeper in the couch cushions, a smile on his lips.

"If I didn't know better, I'd think your tough guy in a suit act is just armor and you're actually soft inside, Phil. You have no idea how much Tash would love that gossip."

"The scandal that would be, huh?"

"I can see it from here. Billboards, a special event at the Stark Expo. 'Coulson has a heart!' People would love it."

Phil looks at the tv screen for a moment, watching Allie meet the other man of her life. The man he ended up being in his own version of the movie, the one to be married and left a few months prior to the wedding. He's more of an idiot than a romantic, really.

"I'm sure they would. But what blackmailing material would you have on me if you told the world? Keep your cards close to your chest and strike at the right moment."

Clint looks at Phil, like he's trying to determine if he should be offended by Phil's words or not, the frown on his face confused. Phil looks away, feeling his cheeks flush at how stupid that comment was, how he's let old, long-buried wounds speak for him.

"Phil, I -"

"No, I'm sorry. That was out of line."

"You want to talk about it?"

Phil lets out an humorless chuckle. "Not really."

"Okay. Want to get drunk, then?"

"Sounds like a much better plan."

;;

Phil decides pancakes are in order the next morning. He's mildly hungover, not enough to crave bacon like it;s oxygen, but enough that the idea of grease is appealing.

He sets to work when Clint is still asleep, making use of the blueberries he bought from the Minchinhampton market the other morning, incorporating them into the batter he makes quickly, efficiently. Phil is usually a stress baker, not getting much enjoyment from getting his hands dirty in the kitchen but a strange form of relief; since arriving in England, he's found himself enjoying the process in a simplistic way, something quiet and soothing at the back of his head.

He makes way too many pancakes for two people, and brews a strong pot of coffee, knowing that if there is anything to manage to wake Clint up, that would be it. He's nursing a mug himself when Clint emerges, hair pointing at odd ends and a look of pure, childish delight when he sees the stack of pancakes on the table.

"My hero, seriously, I owe you my firstborn for this."

"Never dramatic, that's nice," is Phil's acerbic answer, but he serves it with a smile, no heat behind the words.

Clint installs himself at the table, immediately going for the pancakes and pouring a generous amount of syrup on top of them while Phil gets him a mug of coffee.

As he deposits it in front of Clint, Clint grabs his wrist, making Phil stop dead in his tracks, eyes on Clint's face. He wants to say something, but his tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth, too big and heavy. Clint stands up, not letting go of Phil, and tugs him a fraction closer - which is when Phil should panic, but can't find the strength to at this moment, trapped by Clint's purposeful movements.

The kiss is absurdly gentle and simple for the two of them, a brush a sugary lips against Phil's slightly parted mouth, and again, and again. Clint catches Phil's bottom lip between his teeth, turning the kiss filthy for just a second before he lets go, looking at Phil with wide eyes.

Phil knows that now is the moment to say no, this isn't happening, this can't happen, for both their sakes. There are no fraternisation rules in the SHIELD, but Phil knows better than to get involved in any way with Clint, knows it could potentially ruin their work relationship beyond repair. There is a little voice repeating the words over and over again in his head, sounding suspiciously like Fury, and Phil knows he should listen to it.

But there's also the part of Phil's brain that _wants_ this, wants to lunge in and kiss Clint senseless, get him out of his pyjamas just to be able to touch him, the part of Phil's brain that has been wanting Clint for months. And in this safe house, cut away from the rest of the world, this voice is much louder than any other, telling Phil yes, yes, _yes_.

"You're overthinking."

Phil raises his eyebrows. "I am?"

Clint grins, leaning close, his nose brushing against Phil's. "Yes. You are, you're thinking about consequences and responsibilities and wrong and right. Don't. Please, don't."

Clint's pleading tone is earnest, and when Phil looks into his eyes he sees something akin to genuine desperation, colliding with a want Phil had no idea Clint felt. Heat surges trough his body and he smiles, kissing Clint lightly again, _because he can_.

"Breakfast. Don't want it to go cold."

"Wouldn't want that, no."

“So we agree.” 

Clint nods, his smile all-too-eager, and Phil tries not to laugh, feeling positively giddy when Clint steps back, letting go of him with obvious reluctance.

“After breakfast, though...”

“After breakfast, you’re doing the dishes.” 

Clint bursts out laughing, and Phil can’t help but think again, _yes_.

;;

Phil opens his eyes, looking down at his fingers, tangled in Clint's moonlight-soaked hair as he lies half on top of him, sleeping. For a moment Phil lets himself think that he could wake up every day to this, to Clint snoring into his ribs, hand wrapped possessively around Phil's hip. For a moment it seems possible and not completely crazy to think this way, to admit he wants it.

It's hopeless. Phil's thoughts derail to how much danger this would land them both in once back home, back to work; how stupid and careless he's being right now, allowing this to happen. He scrubs his free hand over his face, looking out of the skylight over his head, the stars and the moon clearly visible. It's a nice night.

Possibly this is the two of them going over the edge into complete insanity, pushing just hard enough that they realised their weaknesses were similar. Possibly this is boredom on Clint's part, but Phil is not really insecure and doesn't quite believe that, knowing Clint.

Somehow, Phil doesn't believe any of that, really. He believes they acted on known and assessed feelings, but it's the ‘what's next’ part that feels like walking through a sandstorm.

"You're overthinking again." Of course Clint would wake up from the subtle changes in Phil's breathing and quiet shuffles. Phil can't help but smile.

"What are you going to do about it?"

"Seriously?" Phil looks down as Clint shifts his eyes to be able to look at him. He looks soft around the edges, his smile full of sleep and amusement, and Phil drags his hand down to frame the side of Clint's face, his stomach twisting at the way Clint leans into it, his eyes closing.

"Yeah, seriously."

"I have means to make you stop thinking."

"Or you just talk a good talk."

Clint grins, a little predatory; his eyes are still closed. "You know that's not true, Phil."

He shifts, kissing Phil's ribs lightly, rubbing his nose in the dips, humming to himself. Phil sucks in a breath when the kisses move to his stomach, teeth scraping against the hairs around his belly button.

When Clint's mouth closes around Phil's half-hard cock, he forgets all about recklessness and stupidity and melts into the mattress, his fingers still carding through Clint's hair.

;;

Bob, they discover, has a habit of walking inside the cottage like he owns it, all black fur and low purrs - he especially likes walking in on people in the shower. Phil, never having had a cat in his life, cannot determine if this is normal behavior or not, but he doesn't mind the extra-cuddly company.

He comes in from the balcony once, when Clint is sprawled over the couch with a book and Phil is sitting on the floor by Clint's head, one of the reports he's taken with him in his hand. He's not really paying attention to what he's reading, too focused on the way Clint's index finger and thumb are tracing circles over his collarbones, his arm a heavy, solid weight around Phil's neck.

Phil smiles as the cat steps inside the room, carefully walking to Phil, sniffing him before climbing over his legs.

"You're too late for breakfast, little fella."

"Hmm?" Clint rouses, moving until his face is next to Phil's. "Oh. Hey, Bob. You need to start calling before you come round."

Phil chuckles, forcing himself not to frown when Clint moves his hand to scratch Bob between the ears. He leans against Clint instead, their temples touching as Clint moves down to drop a light kiss on Phil's shoulder, grinning when Bob curls up on Phil's chest.

"Guess he just enjoys cuddling with you."

"Yeah, well, what can I say, I'm a great cuddler."

"That you are. Hey, what's that you're looking at?"

"Oh, just a report from an op finished just before we left."

"So you're reading 3 weeks old reports? Are you looking forward to going back to work that much?"

Phil isn't. He is enjoying their time here way too much, in a way he knows he shouldn't, so the paperwork he'd left in his suitcase for the length of the trip felt now like a way to alleviate the guilt.

"No. No, I'm not, actually."

Clint nudges him lightly until they're face to face, his eyes serious when he leans close and kisses Phil lightly. Phil isn't sure what the kiss means, but he's certain he doesn't want to think about it.

;;

The shower’s hot, almost too hot for Phil, but he’s got Clint right against his back, wet and strong, his hands moving through the bubbles of soap over Phil’s chest. There’s a gasp; Phil isn’t sure who it comes from, but his cock reacts to the noise anyway and he pushes back against Clint, feeling himself starting to sweat even with the water cascading down his face. 

“Phil, fuck.”

“Wanna do that again, Clint?”

Clint rests his forehead against Phil’s shoulder, breathing harshly as he flexes his hips, definitely hard now, pushing his cock between Phil’s ass cheeks. “Fuck, yes. Not now, though - enjoying this shower.”

And they have no supplies around besides shampoo and a bar of soap. Phil nods, turning around in Clint’s arms to kiss him, deep and filthy, groaning when Clint moans in his mouth. He takes both their cocks in hand, breaking the kiss with a gasp as Clint’s erection slides against his own, Clint rolling his hips in a quick, breathless rhythm. 

Phil is losing it way too fast, tilting his head back when Clint licks at his neck, and just like every other moment they’ve shared since entering the cottage, it’s overwhelming, overpowering to have Clint sagging against him, breathing out needy noises, the muscles in his arms bunching and rolling under the sweaty skin, driving Phil crazy with want. 

Clint digs his fingers into Phil’s shoulder, blunt nails no doubt leaving marks as he bites at Phil’s jaw, driving his hips into Phil’s hand, hard, fast, his thighs trembling with the effort. He comes first, clinging to Phil like he’s going to fall down if he doesn’t, but one of his hands wraps around Phil’s, the two of them bringing Phil to orgasm, a tidal wave taking over him. It rushes through his body from head to toe, blinding and deafening him for a moment. 

“God, Phil.” The water washes off come from their chests and hands, and Phil can hardly breathe, the steam of the shower making him feel like he’s about to suffocate. Moving is not something he wants to do anytime soon, however. 

“Next time, let’s make it a bath, less danger of slipping.”

Clint just laughs.

;;

“Okay, so this one is obviously a bullet wound, but how did it happen?”

Phil leans back, staring at the starlit sky as Clint’s fingers tiptoe over his chest, the air just warm enough for the two of them to be mostly naked outside during the night. 

“I’ve been working by Fury’s side for a long time, Clint. Accidents happen.”

Clint’s mouth replaces his fingers, pressing against the puckered scar halfway between Phil’s collarbone and his armpit. “Evading.”

“No more than you are,” Phil replies, pointedly looking at the long, thin scar slicing Clint’s belly, the scar he refuses to talk about, even to doctors and therapists - at least that’s what Phil has read in their reports. 

“You want to know? It was Barney. It’s always - my brother.” Clint starts off angry and ends wistful, rolling off Phil to lie on his back in the grass. Phil can hear noises from the lake, water moving, toads croaking, a small splash here and there. It’s quiet, peaceful, completely at odds with the bomb Clint just dropped, confirming what Phil had always believed but never asked. There are a lot of things about Clint’s darker spaces that Phil pins on Barney, but never once has Clint admitted his brother was the cause of so many problems. 

Phil takes a slow breath, reaching out with a blind hand and gripping Clint’s wrist, fingers pressed against his pulse point. 

“Fury led us into this mission, in the 80’s - Eastern Europe, he had intel on a possible location for Captain America. We were ambushed by a band of fanatic HYDRA followers, and I got shot twice.” Phil’s fingers press against the scar Clint was kissing a moment ago, and then he touches his hip, feeling the rough edges of the second scar underneath his underwear.

Clint’s fingers find Phil’s own, clutching a little desperately. He sounds angry when he speaks next. “Fuck, Fury -”

“He had tapped all of his sources to try and make sure the intel was solid. He couldn’t possibly have known.”

He turns his head to the side, looking at Clint’s jaw clenching and unclenching in the moonlight. The feeling is nice; warm and different, unusual, and Phil shuffles closer, his nose against Clint’s temple. 

“When we go home, things are going to be different, aren’t they?” Clint asks, just a whisper, and Phil closes his eyes, desperate not to think about being back to the US and to the lives they led before this, but unable to lie to Clint, either. 

“Yes, they will be.”

;;

Phil gets the call one month and three days after they get to the cottage.

_“You’re coming home.”_

“Sir.” His jaw muscles twitch. 

_“There’s a flight from London direct to New York tonight at 2000 hours. Can I expect you for debrief tomorrow morning?”_

“Yes, sir. I’ll be there. What about Barton?” His eyes shift to Clint, sitting up in bed, the covers pooled around his waist. Clint raises an eyebrow at Phil, and the thought of not having this any more when he’s just found it makes his stomach tighten. Phil feels like he’s going to be sick in a minute. 

_“I want to speak to you first, but I need him to be around for debriefing afterwards, so bring him with you.”_

“Yes, sir.”

_“We’ll see you tomorrow, Coulson.”_

“Sir.”

Phil hangs up, taking a breath as he walks back to the bed, sitting on the edge of it, his back to Clint. He feels tense, his shoulders aching as he runs a hand over his face, feeling Clint shift closer. His hand is almost too warm when it touches Phil’s back, his lips landing on the back of Phil’s neck, making him shiver, reaching back to tug Clint even closer, their fingers tangling over his lap. 

“We’re going home, then?”

“Tonight.”

Clint sighs, eyelashes fluttering against Phil’s skin. It all feels too comfortable and _right_ for something that he knows will end in a few hours. He shouldn’t have let it happen at all, but Phil, in the end, is only human, can only try so hard. He swallows around the lump in his throat. 

“We should start packing.”

“We have a while yet, Phil. We don’t even have to, to _stop doing this_.”

Clint’s fingers tighten around Phil’s, as if trying to keep him right where he is, as if Phil is already gone, and the thought alone makes Phil want to be sick all over again. 

“I’ve got to sort out our flight tickets.”

“Phil -”

Phil turns around and pulls Clint into a kiss, fierce and brutal, feeling Clint melt right into him, desperation evident in his every move, kissing back just as hard, just as needy. They grip and grab, forceful, groaning into each other’s mouths, breathing hard through their nose, because they know - they both know this is a last kiss. 

;;

They return to New York, return to the lives they led before the cottage, and Phil tries his best to put the past month behind him, working himself to the ground to make up for lost time and to avoid having to think about just how empty his bed is at night, and how his fridge only contains leftover Chinese for one. He falls asleep on the couch in his office more than once, a few times in his chair, with his head pillowed on his hands over the desk, ignores his fellow Agents when they sign off, tell him to get some rest. He goes through every report from the last month, gets to know the new missions and objectives, the failed operations and the repeat experiences. He reads every email and report from R&D, goes down there a few times to check out some innovations himself, observing the way his fingers shake around the fabric of a new suit for Natasha, detached indifference to his own sleep deprivation and repressed thoughts. 

He knows he has about three more days before Fury is onto him. Phil’s got parameters; the new mission objectives to be determined and assigned, plus the cleanup of Clint’s Hungarian mistake, minus Fury’s obsession with knowing everything about everybody in HQ gives Phil about 72 hours before he gets a lecture of some sort, or is asked for an explanation, so he crams as much as he can into the time he has and gets the hell out of Dodge before he hits Fury’s point of no return. 

Spending so much time in his office also allows Phil to avoid Clint; the only time they meet is in the R&D lab, and Phil gives him a wide berth, keeping his eyes on the report he’s just been given by a tiny scientist with huge, unblinking eyes. If Clint hesitates, Phil doesn’t see it. 

Better this way. The less they see of each other, the less they can doubt that this is the best decision, and the easier it will become for Phil to grow used again to cooking for one and sleeping in the middle of his bed. Their time away was a fluke, a momentarily lapse in judgment, a stupid miscalculation that felt like a good idea in a closed-off environment. Phil knows that they can’t sustain it here, where they are both in constant danger, when Phil would go mad being left behind while Clint goes off to risk his life; and that’s not even taking into account Fury’s very probable disapproval, and all the ways they could be both used against the other if they were to be taken by any kind of villain - their perversion knows no bounds sometimes. 

So it’s for the best. Or at least, that’s what Phil tells himself - he is an expert on how to lie to himself and live in denial, because it’s obvious that the damage has already been done. 

;;

There are rumors running through SHIELD. There are always rumors - Special Agents are worse than prison inmates and teenage girls when it comes to this, only possibly surpassed by Marines; Phil would know, he’s been one. He knows how to tune out the sound, white noise he forgets about easily, even when it’s about Clint and his drunken escapades, about how Natasha is worried about him, apparently. Phil tunes it out because if he doesn’t, it _hurts_ , his heart reminding him that it’s all his fault if they’re both broken now, trying not to show it to the rest of the world, trying to lick their wounds in peace. They’ve never said anything about it; just like a first kiss, they had a last one, and went on their respective ways, and now it’s better for Phil to not think about it any more, to not allow the Clint-shaped space inside his chest to ache. 

He walks inside Director Fury’s office without knocking, because he’s expected there, and stands before the desk, almost at attention. He doesn’t feel like sitting; he’s afraid he’ll let everything spill out if he relaxes for a single second. 

Fury looks up at him, leaning back in his seat and stapling his fingers together under his chin, looking for all he’s worth like he knows something Phil doesn’t, and it’s unnerving and disarming all at the same time, as well as truly annoying. Phil doesn’t fidget, and after a moment Fury sighs, moving forward to slide a folder towards him.

“I’m sending you to New Mexico. There’s been a lot of extraterrestrial activity over there, so I want you to check it out. Need you to gather intel from one Jane Foster, who seems to have witnessed some of it first-hand.”

“Sir. What do we know of this Jane Foster?”

“She’s an astrophysicist, working on wormholes, and if she has indeed found one, Phil, we could have a lot more than we expected to have to handle on our hands.” Fury sounds wary, and Phil knows that he’s being sent over there because he is the best person to handle said job, and Fury is too busy with the search for Captain America and the constant babysitting Stark requires. 

“I’ll take care of it, sir.”

“I know. Take Barton along, will you? He’s been stalking the corridors like a jungle cat, and I’m worried if he doesn’t get a mission soon he’ll actually start mauling people.”

Phil feels himself straighten automatically at the name, hoping like hell that Fury doesn’t notice. Denial is a lot of bullshit, because Phil’s blood grows warmer at the thought of being in yet another plane next to Clint, driving for so many hours down to Albuquerque with Clint in the passenger seat, and this is exactly why nothing should have happened, this is why a cottage in the Cotswolds has ruined everything. 

Because before the Cotswolds he had a chance of ignoring his attraction for Clint. 

“Yes, sir.”

;;

They fly to Dallas, allow themselves a few hours to stretch their limbs and get themselves some food, before getting a car to drive up to Puente Antiguo. They’ve not talked much on the flight over with Sitwell sitting next to them, but the other Agent leaves them to coordinate the gear teams on the trip to Puente Antiguo, and Phil hears Clint sigh and sees him relax as soon as it’s justthe two of them in the car.

“I’m really not much of a fan of flying Economy.”

“I can let Fury know he can use the budget for the R&D of your next recurve bow to get you First Class, if you want.”

Clint chuckles, turning away to look out the tinted window as Phil starts the car and gets them out of the airport car park, unsure of what is happening, his world tilted on its axis. He’d expected awkwardness, long silences, but this is comfortable, this is something he knows and has navigated before, which makes it all even weirder. 

It goes on like this, companionable silence disrupted by small bouts of conversation for a while. Phil lets himself be lulled by how easy it is, talking about the operation and whatever they’ll find in New Mexico, avoiding topics better left alone. It’s been three weeks since they got back from England, and they haven’t even approached the subject once, which is good for Phil’s denial, but terrible for the rapidly degrading state of his heart. 

It’s his own fault; he has made this choice for the two of them, and his heart is his own problem, he’ll get over it. He’ll get over it. 

Phil interrupts a gas station hold-up between Littlefield and Muleshoe, and buys twice more doughnuts than usual, throwing them on Clint’s lap when he slips back into the car afterwards. He’s not even out of breath. 

“Everything okay? You were in there a while.”

“Couldn’t decide which one to have.” He doesn’t feel like telling Clint there are two criminals out cold in there, and the police on its way. 

Clint smiles. “So you got both.”

Phil nods, rolling the car to the other end of the gas station and back on the road. It’s pitch black out by now, the black ribbon of the road in front of him keeping Phil’s attention, until a hand reaches out, squeezes his leg. Phil inhales sharply, tightening his fingers on the steering wheel. The hand is gone the next second, and Phil looks down to see the faint shape of fingertips on his pants from the icing sugar covering the doughnuts. His heart lodges itself in his throat. 

“You know, it wasn’t about the sex, Phil. Talking to you, it was - I just miss it.”

Phil swallows, foot pressing on the gas pedal unconsciously, and he blinks the blur out of his eyes as he slows down again, back to an appropriate speed, looking straight ahead as he tries to find words to say to _that_ , this quiet admission of Clint’s that just ripped Phil in two like nothing else ever has. 

Finally, he looks over to Clint for a second, licking his lips. “Get some rest, you’ll be driving in a couple of hours.” His voice is gentle, almost a whisper, and it’s the best he can do, far from enough. Clint takes a breath, but then he smiles, sadness at the corners of his mouth, and nods. 

“Yeah. Okay, sir.”

Phil doesn’t brush the sugary fingertips off his pants, and he ignores the way his stomach tightens painfully. 

;;

The diner’s sound system is playing The Cardigans’ _Lovefool_ when Phil walks in, which feels like a cosmic joke and he’s the ass of it. He sits in front of Sitwell and orders a coffee when the waitress comes to them, humming under her breath. 

“So, what are the news?” he asks once Sitwell has got his eggs and bacon and he’s got his coffee, already wanting this whole operation to be done with. It’s just strange, even for their standards. 

“We’ve secured the perimeter around the hammer, Sir. There’s been no suspicious activity.” Sitwell talks around his food, wolfing it down like he’s not going to get another meal in the next few weeks, and Phil observes him for a moment, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“What about Jane Foster’s work?” 

He’s tried to read her journal, make sense of her scribbles, but as smart as he is, he’s not a physicist. They have people that can handle this better than he can. This whole thing feels much bigger than any of them, from Foster to SHIELD, and yet, they’re the ones left to take care of it.

“We’re still processing it.” 

Thinking about work helps not thinking about Clint. He’s putting things into places and plans in his head, letting them take over his life and his thoughts, keeping him from spending too much time realizing he misses Clint just as badly as Clint apparently misses him. 

“Alright, good. We need to make progress on this, so I’m going to go see Miss Foster and her friends again this afternoon. Let me know if anything happens.”

“Shouldn’t you take someone with you, sir?”

Phil smiles, raising an eyebrow. “Is a 5’3’’ feisty physicist supposed to frighten me, Agent Sitwell?”

Sitwell shrugs. “The other one’s got a tazer. You could have Barton as backup, he’s been whining for two days about having nothing to do.”

Clint, one way or another, seems to always come up. Phil breathes into his coffee, considering the option for a moment, considering spending some time with Clint at his back. It forces him to suppress a shiver. 

“I’ll be fine. If he keeps on complaining, send him on a foot patrol around the perimeter, or tell him to go find a tree in which to perch somewhere in the fucking desert. Just find him something to do if he bothers you this much. I don’t need him with me.”

He doesn’t mean to sound so acidic, but he ends up spatting out the words to keep his voice from shaking, and Sitwell leans back, looking halfway between shocked and angry. Phil clenches his jaw, but he doesn’t apologize. 

“Very well, sir.”

Phil nods, and stands up, refusing to regret his words.

“I’ll see you later, Agent Sitwell.”

;;

The breach in the perimeter by ‘Donald Blake’ is quite the distraction for the lot of them, but in the end it’s anti-climatic. Phil makes the executive decision to let the man go and see where it gets them, and he’s preparing details for an intel operation when Sitwell walks into his office. He keeps his eyes on the papers in front of him, details on Jane Foster and Darcy Lewis and Erik Selvig spread over his desk; he knows they’re not clear and they know more than they let on, and he’s decided to get everything he can from them. He’s tired of just sitting around, waiting for something to happen.

“Sir, we can’t locate Hawkeye.”

Phil puts his pen down, leveling a look at Sitwell, who seems perturbed, like he knows Phil is ready to fly off the handle at any given moment. 

“What do you mean, you can’t locate him?”

“He disappeared this morning, Sir, didn’t take any of his weapons, managed to turn off his tracker.”

If Clint doesn’t want to be found, he won’t - Phil knows this well enough, but he wanted him on the intel mission, and if he loses one of their biggest assets just because he’s been an ass, Fury will kill him. He feels the blood drain from his face, honest-to-God fear that Clint took off for good and Phil will never see him again, before he takes control of himself, clenching his jaw. 

“Send a few teams through the town. We can hope he didn’t pack any MREs and he’ll get hungry before next week.”

Sitwell nods and retreats quickly, and Phil balls his hands into fists over his desk, resisting throwing all of his work against the wall in frustration. Of all the things Clint is, how many times he disputes orders or looks down at people of higher rank than him, it’s not a habit of his to just leave without letting anyone knows where he’s going, or to fuck with his tracker. 

Phil isn’t naive not to think it’s partially his fault, making it hard for Clint to talk to him, even if the night before they were both perfectly professional, acting on instinct. Maybe it was the last drop. Phil wouldn’t blame him. Fuck. 

Phil’s so, so fucked.

;;

Clint comes back 31 hours later, dust in his stubble and his hair, dark circles under his eyes. Phil is reading through daily reports when Clint steps into his room, easily unlocking it and slipping in like nothing’s happened. He looks tired, but Phil is angry by now, overwrought by too many hours of worrying. 

“Reporting, Sir.”

Phil stands up, leaving papers strewn all over his hotel bed, taking in the way Clint seems high strung, tense all over. 

“Who gave you your orders?”

“No one, Sir. I heard you over the comms about gathering intel, I thought I’d take initiative.”

Phil takes a step closer, misplaced anger making him want to punch Clint in the face; he wouldn’t even mind ending up face down on the carpet, where a fight with Clint would definitely lead, if he can land a few hits himself. 

“You don’t take initiative. It isn’t your job. You follow orders, you don’t disappear for 32 hours without a phone or a tracker, or, hell, a weapon. You _don’t_.”

Clint looks straight ahead, over Phil’s shoulder. “I needed the time away. Sir.”

“Away from what?”

Clint’s eyes are sharp when they turn to Phil’s, and his posture changes slightly, looking more dangerous to Phil. “From you. From you and your pretending that everything is fine when it’s painfully obvious to _everyone_ that it isn’t.”

This time it’s Clint that strides forward, until he’s got Phil pinned against the wall, his eyes dark, too intense for Phil to bear. For a second, Phil wishes he hadn’t left his weapon on the bed as he contemplates kneeing Clint in the groin, but in the end he settles for pushing Clint, gathering strength and going for the chest. Clint’s expecting it though, grabbing Phil’s wrists and coming even closer. Phil still refuses to look at him, and Clint lets out a frustrated growl, his fingers flexing over Phil’s wrists.

“C’mon, work with me, Phil. Look at me.”

He’s pleading, which Phil wasn’t expecting, and he turns to look at Clint only because he can’t help himself. He’s reading too much in the depths of Clint’s irises, seeing just how much Clint would give up for this. It takes Phil completely by surprise, and he inhales sharply, feeling Clint pant against his cheek. 

Phil pushes again, this time getting the advantage and slipping away from Clint, immediately going for his gun. He doesn’t level it up as Clint looks at him with shock in his eyes. They both know he’ll never fire it, but the impact is the same, somehow just as bad. 

“I can’t let you give everything up, Clint. You’re too important to -” Phil pauses, realizing his voice is trembling. This is so stupid he could almost laugh. “You’re too important to SHIELD, and I’m not.”

“Is your job more important to you than I am?” It’s an honest question, and it deserves an honest answer; Phil hesitates too long before answering. 

“Yes.”

Clint takes a short breath through his nose before nodding. “I’ll report to Agent Sitwell, Sir,” he says before leaving the room. Phil stays frozen in place for a long time, his gun shaking in his hand. 

;;

SHIELD takes care of the civilians’ evacuation when Loki’s Automaton’s attack destroys half the town. At the time, Phil just goes through the motions, getting people to safety without knowing what the hell is going on, without knowing if his Agents are safe themselves. There is shouting over the comms, unintelligible through the explosions and screams of terror, and Phil tries to make sense of it, but he’s too focused on keeping people from dying. 

He’s seen some pretty fucked-up things in his life, Stark only being one of many, but this is just beyond words; the lives of so many for just one. 

It all ends as abruptly as it started, with ‘Donald’ now clad in armor and promising to be an ally, with Phil promising to return Foster’s findings to her and her team. They will be useful in the future, and he needs them to cooperate; when he asks her to come for a debriefing the next day, she agrees and nods, letting him know she’ll fill in the blanks for him. 

Phil spends the rest of the day gathering his team and evacuating the wounded, civilians and SHIELD agents both, feeling absurdly glad when Clint doesn’t make the list. Seeing Jane with ‘Donald’, how easily she’d given up her life as she knew it to share this with him, how little she’d hesitated, even in the face of danger, made Phil realize something, something very simple, one of these little ideas that take so much space. It’d been so easy for her, even though she barely knew the man - the god, as it stands, and she still went for it with all that she could. Phil didn’t want to assume the reasons why, but he could draw some parallels to his own problems.

He’s just a coward.

;;

Clint opens the door a second after Phil knocks, giving him one hard look before clenching his jaw and turning around, stalking back in the room, leaving the door open. Phil takes a deep breath before stepping in, closing the door with an audible click in the heavy silence. Clint sits on the edge of his bed, looking down at his hands, and Phil keeps himself from reaching out at the sight of the bandage around Clint’s arm, stark white against Clint’s tanned skin. 

“Are you okay?”

Clint shrugs, still not looking at Phil, and God, Phil has fucked this up. “It’s just a minor burn. Why are you here, Sir? I gave my report to Agent Sitwell.”

Phil sits next to Clint, mimicking his position. Clint tenses. “I lied, Clint.”

“What about?”

“When you asked me if my job is more important than you are, I said yes. I lied.”

Clint doesn’t reply, but when Phil darts a look his way, he sees Clint’s eyes on him. Phil licks his lips, knowing all too well he’s not done here. “Thing is, Clint - I’m a coward. And I’m sorry. I never wanted this to happen -”

“You mean you didn’t want what happened in England?” Clint’s tone edges on pain, and Phil digs his fingernails into his palms.

“No, I didn’t mean that. I wanted that part. I still want it. What I didn’t want was losing my professionalism, losing my objectivity when it comes to you, to treat you differently than I’d treat anyone else. But it’s bullshit, isn’t it? Because even when I’m trying to be professional, and deep into a mission, I can’t stop thinking about you. I can’t stop worrying about you, and wanting you around. I want to take you to the museums, Clint. Like I promised.”

Clint frowns. “You realize you almost drew your gun on me.”

Phil nods, slowly, before moving off the bed, kneeling in front of Clint, his hands on Clint’s knees. “I know. God, Clint, I’m sorry. I _fucked up_.”

“How can I know you won’t do it again?” Clint asks, his hands reaching for Phil’s, slowly curling his fingers around Phil’s. 

“You can’t. But I promise to give you my best.”

Phil knows it’s not enough. Despite holding Phil’s hands in his own, Clint is still tense, sharp edges when he looks at Phil.

“I can’t let you do this to me again, Phil. I’ve got no guarantees that you’re not going to turn away and fuck off like you did before. I don’t want that, I don’t want to be in limbo every morning, wondering if you’re going to stay or going to go. I want to believe you want to stay, because I want you, but I’ve been fucked over too many times, Phil. I’m not letting you do it, too.”

Phil pulls back slightly, gripping Clint’s fingers all the same. He knows he’s not being fair on Clint. 

“Then make some rules.”

Clint sighs, pulling his hands away. “It’s not that easy, Phil.” 

Phil nods, standing up slowly. He’s said his piece, and there is nothing more he can do at the moment.

“So, I should go. We’ll be on our way back to New York tomorrow.”

Clint nods, but doesn’t say anything as Phil walks out. 

;;

Clint drives with Sitwell up to Albuquerque, and they take an earlier flight than Phil, who finishes things up in Puente Antiguo on his own. As soon as he lands in New York he heads to HQ, knowing he’s got much to tell Fury. He pushes through his desire to just go home and sleep, and ignores everyone he meets on his way to Fury’s office when he gets to the SHIELD complex. He’s hardly managing to keep himself from rubbing his eyes, feeling his eyelids dry as sandpaper when he blinks. He hasn’t slept since his talk with Clint, over 72 hours ago.

“So, had some fun without me, Phil?”

Phil smiles, so exhausted he can barely understand why he’s doing anything at the moment. Everything hurts, his body aching with the realization that he’s fucked up beyond repair, and now he’s got to move on from everything Clint-related. 

“Fun is not a word I’d use, sir, but we weren’t bored, for sure.”

“Seems you’ve uncovered a Norse god, huh?”

Phil nods. “Seems like it, yes.”

“What is Loki’s threat level?”

“Unknown, Sir. Thor apparently made his way back to Asgard to take care of him, but he never came back."

Fury nods, before leaning back in his seat.

“You look exhausted, Phil. Go home, get over the jetlag. Sitwell’s reported already, and I’ve got a lot of reading about this to do. We can talk about it after the weekend.”

“Sir.” 

Phil doesn’t push his luck, quickly making his way out of Fury’s office and out of the complex, driving to his little house upstate on autopilot, too tired and too heartbroken to be able to think about anything else than burying deep in bed and forgetting he’s supposed to be a part of the world.

;;

Clint is waiting on the porch of Phil’s house when Phil comes back from groceries shopping, on a Saturday afternoon two weeks later. He kills the engine in the driveway and stays in the car for a moment too long, just staring at Clint sitting on the steps leading up to the front door. Phil steps out of the car eventually, walking closer to Clint, but stops himself before he gets into touching range, shopping bag hanging from his fingers.

“I didn’t want to hack into your security system. Thought I’d wait out here instead. Nice weather,” Clint says softly, staring up at the sky like he’s trying to avoid Phil’s eyes. There’s color high on his cheeks. 

“Wanna come in?”

Phil feels his heartbeat increase suddenly when Clint nods, a rush of stupid hope taking over him as he walks up the steps and unlocks the door. Phil tries to stamp on the excitement of having Clint around him, because it could go so wrong so easily; he can’t start thinking he’s getting what he desperately wants again. 

They settle in the kitchen, beers in their hands, sitting with the table between the two of them. 

“So, I have some rules.”

Phil’s mouth goes dry, and he takes a pull of his beer, unable to say anything. He nods, though, his eyes not leaving Clint’s. 

“First, I’m not hiding.” Clint holds up a finger, and Phil nods again, licking his lips. He can do that. Fuck, he’ll ask for a transfer if he needs to. 

“Second, you stop bullshitting me. I get that you don’t want to treat me differently from any other Agent, but thing is, you have, and we both know you will keep on doing it, because this,” he gestures between the two of them, “this is not like another Agent to Agent relationship and it’s never been, even before the Cotswolds.”

Phil’s stomach twists. “I agree.”

“Third, if sent on different operations, no longer than one month before seeing each other. Regular calls. The past three weeks have been torture and I don’t plan on a repeat.” Clint looks down and away at that, his eyes shifting over Phil’s kitchen furniture, the blush coming back to his cheeks. Phil holds onto his beer bottle harder, his knuckles whitening as his stomach bottoms out. He wants to touch Clint so much his fingers ache.

This rule might be difficult to swing at times, but Phil is all too willing to put his work life in the background of his personal life, for the first time in over twenty years. This is too good a thing he’s finally found after not searching for it for too long, and he’s done messing around with it. 

“Okay.”

Clint nods slowly, taking a deep breath. “Four, no suits when off work.” Phil smiles. “Five, you cook. Six, overtime when we’re in the same state is prohibited.”

By then, Phil is grinning. He stands up, leaving his beer on the table as he walks around it, closer to Clint. He’s thinking of printing out said rules and sticking them to the fridge. 

“Okay. Where do I sign?”

Clint shakes his head, reaching out, hand curled around Phil’s thigh. “And seven, if you fuck up again, I will punch you in the face.”

Phil looks down, fingers smoothing over Clint’s temple. “Fair enough. Do you want keys to this place?”

Clint huffs out a breath, tugging Phil closer. “C’mere.”

He pulls Phil over his lap, the kiss harsh and needy, too many unsaid things in the way Clint claws at Phil’s back. He pushes Phil’s jacket off his shoulders and on to the floor, rolling his hips up into Phil’s, who groans helplessly while biting at Clint’s bottom lip. Clint breaks the kiss to lick at his neck, panting harshly. 

“If you fuck up again, I’ll do worse than punch you in the face, Phil.”

Phil nods, fingers digging into Clint’s shoulders. “Okay.”

;;

The set of rules, signed by the both of them, stays on the fridge, half covered by recipes and receipts and postcards - a thing they’ve added recently, sending themselves postcards from wherever they go. It’s dogeared at one corner, and Phil always gives it a smile when he passes by. 

Loki tried to get to the piece of paper from the moment he stepped into the house, Clint quick on his heels to prevent any destruction the kitten could think of. They were fortunate, though; the cat was happier snuggling to one of them than trying to rip wallpaper off the walls, besides wanting to get to the rules.

When Phil walks home one evening, the rules are gone. Phil tries his best not to panic, since Clint is nowhere to be found, either; Phil checks the wardrobe just in case, finding Clint’s clothes all in place, which goes a way to reassure Phil; they’ve not gone this far for one of them to suddenly disappear. The thought reminds Phil of telling Fury, who had just smiled at them, hiding his lack of surprise despairingly badly. 

The front door opens and closes as Phil is taking off his jacket, leaving it on the chair in the corner of the bedroom. “Phil?”

“Up here.”

He listens to Clint’s quiet footsteps and smiles when his head appears in the doorway. “I had to pop out, there was an issue.”

Phil raises his eyebrows, looking at Clint, who uncovers whatever he’s been hiding behind his back. It’s a simple picture wood frame, and Phil steps closer, toeing off his shoes as he does. It’s their rules, the paper slightly torn at the bottom. 

“Loki finally got to them this afternoon, so I decided to definitely get them out of his reach.”

They share a grin. “Sound plan.”

Clint nods, leaning close to kiss Phil lightly. “When are you taking off for Nebraska?”

“Three days.”

“Okay. Shouldn’t be long, should it?”

“No. A matter of a few days, according to Fury.”

Clint leans even closer, resting his forehead on Phil’s shoulder. “I hope you plan on cooking me some food before you go.”

Phil laughs, kissing Clint’s temple lightly. Clint’s sigh trembles a little, but Phil holds him close, not about to say goodbye before he has to. “Sure. Let’s see what to do about dinner tonight first, though, what do you say?”

“I say yes.” 

Phil knows it means more, and that’s good enough for him.

;; The end ;;


End file.
